


release what you've been holding

by missymeggins



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2019-05-02 12:52:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missymeggins/pseuds/missymeggins





	release what you've been holding

_release what you've been holding_ | **castle** ; castle/beckett| 4901 words | pg | au after _linchpin_

 

 

  
  
  
It could almost be déjà vu.  
  
Flashing lights and a chill through her bones. It's a jacket around her instead of a blanket this time, and there's no added complication of a boyfriend who loves her more than she loves him, but there's still fear caught in the back of her throat, catching and scratching and trying hard to stop her from breathing.  
  
It _should_ be déjà vu.  
  
But it's not. This is actually what her life has become; repeated moments of almost dying just inches from Richard Castle.  
  
In silence.  
  
(She can't decide what bothers her more. That she came so close to actually telling him something true, in real, audible words before the cold of the freezer snatched her from consciousness. Or that this time, as their car was sinking and filling with water, she didn't even try.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
She hears petty words fly from her mouth -  
  
( _So, you slept with her? Have there been others? Just wanted to see how big the club was._ )  
  
\- and she doesn't even recognise herself in these moments.  
  
In her head she can hear her therapist asking: “Do you think this behaviour is just a way of deflecting from the reality of yet again nearly dying and yet again pretending that's not a good enough reason to finally confront your feelings?”  
  
“ _Fuck off_ ,” she whispers to him.  
  
Only, in actual fact she's really whispering to herself because - _her_ imagination, _her_ thoughts. And still she can't even take responsibility for them. That's how messed up she is, she thinks.  
  
So much so that this whole train of thought completely throws her off and she finds she's standing next to someone else's desk like she doesn't even know where she belongs any more.  
  
And apparently thinking in symbolism is what she does now.  
  
Sometimes she hates him for the ways he's changed her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“If you're stubborn enough to keeping going, I'm stupid enough to go with you.”  
  
He says it like it's supposed to be a _good_ thing, this blind loyalty he has to her.  
  
But he's wrong. It's a problem. He is stupid. For going with her. For _always_ going with her, no matter what.  
  
He's betting on her – to be his muse, his friend, his partner. He's betting on her one day being ready to be _more_ and, honestly, she's not sure it isn't a bad bet.  
  
She's not sure she even knows how to bet on herself right now.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He brings her coffee and she can't remember how or when it happened but somehow that gesture doesn't feel warm and comforting any more.  
  
It feels like dependency. His on her; hers on him, and so much weight between them she can't quite comprehend how they're still standing. They cling to this so hard it's like their fingers have locked into place and now they can't let go.  
  
They can't change it and that's not what love should be.  
  
_They_ aren't what love should be. Not now, not the way they are.  
  
They could be, she thinks. At least, she used to _believe_ they could be.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
And then there's a moment.  
  
“Wow, I don't know what they're talking about but this is very exciting.”  
  
She smiles. She can't help herself because this, this simple thing about him – his childish joy and wonder at a world she used to think of as so dark, is what she fell in love with.  
  
But she can't understand how it is they got to this stage, of limbo and lies, so far removed from the simplicity of _he fell in love with her_ and _she fell in love with him_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Sometimes I wish we'd never slept together,” Sophia tells her.  
  
She's not sure what she's supposed to think or feel in this moment, but she's surprised to find that the clearest thought in her head is actually, “Sometimes I wish _we_ already had.”  
  
It's not that it's about the sex exactly. It's just that there have been so many times it _could_ have happened in the past three years and sometimes she thinks that maybe if it had they'd have ended up in a good place. A better place than they are now.  
  
(He doesn't offer to 'debrief' her any more. God knows it might make things easier if he did.)  
  
Sophia talks about 'keeping the longing' like that's somehow better than breaking the tension. And maybe for her, for _them_ , it would have been.  
  
But Beckett knows that the _longing_ between her and Castle is just one of the things tying them in knots. They've prolonged it, fought against it, and now there's so much to lose. They couldn't do what Sophia and Castle did and just _end_ , disappear from each other's lives like it never happened.  
  
They wouldn't know how.  
  
And this longing between them is just a stalemate they don't have the courage to break.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Their stories never end well.  
  
Like Sophia said, (and it's funny because those words feel too familiar to her) you can't just rewrite the ending.  
  
That's what scares her. It feels inevitable that they will fuck it up. And when that happens, they'll be stuck with it forever.  
  
(She's supposed to believe in the possibility that he's the exception to the rule. That he's the one that will last. Her therapist tells her that's how well adjusted people deal with the thrill and fear of new relationships.  
  
But she doesn't really understand 'well adjusted'. She has never _adjusted_ to the darkness in her story; she just learned to let it live with her.  
  
Finally she's truly beginning to understand the problem with that.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(Except she's lying to herself when she says their stories never end well. That's not entirely true. Some of his stories end very well.  
  
Yes, he has two failed marriages behind him. But he also has a daughter who is clearly a product of his love and dedication. He has a mother who raised him to be the man he is; the man who would take her in when one of her own stories didn't end so well, and write a new beginning for all three of them, together.  
  
His best story is written in his family.  
  
She can't say the same.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
She bumps his shoulder as they walk out.  
  
It's a stupid gesture really. Like that's enough to make things right. Like that's going to take away his grief and his guilt over Sophia. Like it's going to stop him spinning ever wilder theories about his father that will have him obsessively searching until he finds the truth.  
  
Just like her. (That's not what she wants for him. She doesn't even want it for herself but she's still trying to figure out _how_ to stop.)  
  
A shoulder bump is not enough. Not even close. But he accepts it like it is and she hates him for how easy he makes it for her to be a coward.  
  
So she goes home and, for the first time in years, gets drunk as hell.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
And then shows up at his loft at three in the morning.  
  
“What the fuck is wrong with us,” she yells at him, stumbling into his apartment when he opens the door.  
  
“Shit Kate, what the hell. You're a mess,” he breathes out, completely shaken by the sight of her of like this.  
  
“ _We're_ a mess!” she yells at him again, and it's only when she turns around and the light from his stairway hits her that he sees the mascara tracks all over her face.  
  
“Shhh, Alexis and mother are asleep,” he whispers. “Come on, let's go outside.”  
  
He wraps his arm around her waist, holding her up, and walks her out of his apartment and into the elevator across the hall.  
  
When the doors close and she shoves him in the chest with a vicious “I hate you,” he hits the emergency stop button.  
  
His apartment lobby really isn't the place for this. Nor is the pavement outside it. It's three in the morning, but this is New York, the city that never sleeps as they say, and this moment – whatever the hell it's about to be – does _not_ need to end up on Page Six.  
  
“You hate me?” he asks her, not forcefully, but not gently either. It's a genuine plea for the truth.  
  
“No,” she says, taking her hands from his chest and stepping backwards. “But sometimes I really hate us,” she tells him, actually looking him directly in the eye.  
  
“I don't know what to say to that,” he answers tiredly. (Tired, not because of the hour, but because he's almost been holding his breath since the summer, waiting for something like this to happen.)  
  
“Right. Because we don't talk. About anything.”  
  
He sighs, leaning against the elevator wall before just sinking down and sitting on the floor. She follows his lead, hugging her knees to her chest and he thinks that, aside from lying on the ground with blood gushing out of her stomach, this is the most vulnerable he's ever seen her.  
  
He doesn't like it. And yet, a small part of him secretly thinks it's about time because at least it's honest. She's not okay. _They're_ not okay. It's long past time they acknowledged that.  
  
“So let's talk,” he tells her.  
  
She looks at him, terror in her eyes, and he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want her to be afraid, but everything he could say – all the words he's been holding in – _are_ the very things she's scared of.  
  
“You love me,” she finally says, quietly, not quite a question, not just a statement of fact. A mirror of his own words just a moment ago, he supposes. Like him, she just wants the truth.  
  
“Yes I do,” he says, somewhat surprised by the complete lack of hesitation in his answer. But holding that truth in is so much harder than letting it out. He pauses though, uncertain just how far they're supposed to go with this honesty tonight.  
  
“I told you that you that when you got shot. I thought you didn't remember.”  
  
It's not supposed to sound like an accusation – it's honestly _not_ an accusation – but it's so hard with them. All the secrets and betrayals and harsh words. Sometimes it's almost impossible not to feel like _everything_ they do, say, is an accusation of sorts.  
  
“I know. I know it wasn't fair to pretend that I hadn't heard,” she replies. He looks hurt and he's trying to hide that from her, trying not to make her feel guilty and she doesn't know how to deal with it.  
  
This is their biggest problem. They protect each other. They protect themselves. But in the process they lose all ability to be honest about anything at all because there are always ulterior motives at play.  
  
“You can be mad,” she says firmly. “You _should_ be mad! I nearly died and you told me you loved me and that should have been the start. That should have been where we stopped hiding and started trying to figure this out and I hate that we didn't. I hate that I pretended not to know and I hate that you didn't try to tell me again and I hate that I ran away for three months and I hate that ever since then we've just been carrying on like we don't know how messed up we are.”  
  
“Yes, I love you,” he tells her softly. “I have been in love with you for so long and I should have told you long _before_ you got shot. But it was complicated and you weren't single and I didn't want to be the cause of any unhappiness for you. And you're right, I should have tried harder afterwards, to push us forward but I was scared Kate. It's not much of an excuse, but it's all I've got.”  
  
Then there's just silence, and the two of them sitting on opposite sides of a stopped elevator, baring truths in the middle of the night. Still, it's better than the silence they're used to; the silence of things unspoken.  
  
Beckett drops her head, resting it on her knees. “I am so drunk,” she mumbles.  
  
He laughs, a little awkwardly. “Do you want to finish this later? I can take you home if that's what you need?”  
  
“No,” she says, lifting her head and brushing her fingers through her hair, pushing it behind her shoulders as much as possible. “I...I don't know what I need. But we're here and we're talking and I think that's good, right?”  
  
“Yeah, it's good,” he agrees.  
  
“I'm seeing a therapist,” she says abruptly. “I have been since I came back to work.”  
  
She finds herself holding her breath, even though realistically she knows he would never judge her for this. On the contrary, she thinks if they'd been in a better place, he probably would have encouraged it. Still, the bravery it requires has nothing to do with him, or how he might react, and everything to do with her own insecurities.  
  
She'll take it as a small victory that she's even said it out loud. Because it _is_ and she's slowly learning how to acknowledge these things.  
  
“I'm glad,” tells her sincerely. “At least, if it's helping, I'm glad.”  
  
She breathes out. Smiles at him a little.  
  
“It is. Helping. But it only works as much as I let it and I'm not always good at doing what I need to.”  
  
He smiles back, shrugging a little. “Well, you're here aren't you?”  
  
“I had to get drunk first,” she points out bluntly.  
  
“I'm not going to hold that against you.”  
  
She just nods. Of course he won't. When does he ever? Even when he should – like after the summer – he ends up forgiving so easily. She loves this about him. But it also makes her feel small and petty sometimes. She has a much harder time letting things go.  
  
“I'm not mad Kate,” he says, breaking the silence. “And you're wrong in thinking I should be. Not at you, not for pretending you didn't hear me. We're both at fault for a lot of things but you didn't owe me anything. What I said, was true, but I said it in the heat of the moment, in fear, and it wasn't the right time.”  
  
He falters now, hesitant, but continues anyway. “I wish you'd been ready to tell me. I wish we'd been able to be honest with one another. But I'm not mad.”  
  
“I do, you know. _Feel_ what you feel,” she tells him. The words are awkward and vague but she doesn't know how else to say it. “I just need -”  
  
“More time, I know,” he says finishing the sentence for her.  
  
But she shakes her head. “No! Don't finish my sentences for me! That's not...I _need_ to be less fucked up. But I'm starting to think that doesn't have to be about more time. The last thing I want is to keep avoiding this, pretending that 'later' or 'one day' is good enough.”  
  
“So what do you want to do?”  
  
“I want...to tell you that in that car, when you disappeared and we were sinking, I was so fucking scared that you were going to die and I don't ever want to feel that way again. And I want you to _know_ that I don't want to feel that way. I want you to really understand how I feel about you. And that I'm working really hard to be more than what I am right now.”  
  
“ _Kate_ ,” he says, and she knows that tone so well, knows that he means it to be a good thing but he never seems to understand what it does to her.  
  
“No. Don't. I know what you're going to say but you're _wrong_. I _do_ need to be more, I _do_ need to change some things, and when you act like I'm this superhero and you look at me like you think I'm perfect, it just makes it so much harder. I'm not perfect, Castle. I'm _really_ screwed up!”  
  
He stops at this, surprised. But she can see him thinking, absorbing her words and she appreciates the effort he's making.  
  
“I don't think you're as screwed up as you think you are,” he says carefully. “I think you are much _stronger_ than you think you are. But I take your point. I shouldn't treat you that way. And I respect that you want to try and work through some of your issues, I really do. I promise I'll make a concerted effort to rein in my hero worship.”  
  
He says it so seriously that she really can't help but laugh and feel that warm rush to her heart that only he seems able to cause.  
  
(It almost makes her want to cry again.)  
  
“So what do we do now?” he asks, trying to fill the distance between them in this tiny space.  
  
“I don't know,” she tells him honestly. “I'm not great at starting relationships even at the best of times, but with us? There's just so much baggage and I don't know how we deal with that. I don't know why you would _want_ to deal with that,” she finishes in a small voice.  
  
His voice is low and serious when he speaks. It's strangely comforting because she _knows_ this voice of his, knows that it means complete and utter truth, and though she has no idea if she's ready to hear what he has to say, she knows she _is_ ready, is _desperate_ in fact, for them to learn how to actually _talk_ about things.  
  
“This is the most complicated relationship I've ever been in. Or _not_ been in, depending on how you want to look at. But I _still_ want it. I want it despite our baggage, and despite the possibility that we might crash and burn. I've never been more afraid of missing the opportunity than of the consequences of trying, until now, with us. I don't want to just see how our story _ends_ Kate. I want all of it; the prologue, the beginning, middle, end, epilogue. Maybe a sequel. Or a spin-off,” he says lightly with a smile. “Who knows what's going to happen. I just want to try.”  
  
She stretches her knees out, legs flat along the ground now, and resists the urge to cross her arms, laying her palms flat against her thighs.  
  
“I want that too,” she tells him. “But I don't know where we start. _How_ we start.”  
  
“I think maybe we start with a good night's sleep and see what tomorrow brings.”  
  
She wants to roll her eyes – it's such a writerly thing to say, reminds her of his 'until tomorrow' - but she doesn't because he's right. Tomorrow _is_ a good place to start.  
  
He pulls her to her feet and releases the emergency stop, taking them down to the lobby.  
  
The doors open and she moves to leave but he reaches out brushing the fabric of her sweater just over her hip. “Wait.”  
  
He looks nervous. He clears his throat.  
  
“I was just wondering. Now that we're moving forward or whatever. Is it...I mean, would it be okay if I sometimes tell you that I love you?”  
  
She pauses, lets herself think about it for a moment (because this is something she's still learning to do right now; to actually be honest about what she wants and needs) and says, “I think that – I think that's something I would really like to hear sometimes,” she tells him, nodding a little as she does, because it feels like the right decision.  
  
“Okay,” he says smiling and kissing her lightly on the forehead. “Let's get you a cab.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He brings her coffee.  
  
At some point she's going to talk him about that. Suggest that maybe they should be taking turns.  
  
But today he's drawn a teeny, tiny, love heart on her lid. It's sappy and overly romantic, the kind of thing she'd expect between Ryan and Jenny, but it makes her smile because it's an 'I love you' without the weight of the actual words and it makes her feel safe.  
  
“Thank you,” she tells him.  
  
He just sits down next to her and says, “So what's on the agenda today?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Later he asks her if she wants to have dinner.  
  
“I have therapy,” she says.  
  
(She doesn't offer an apology. He doesn't ask for one. They're making progress.)  
  
“Okay. You let me know when you're free. Or, I guess more accurately, when you're free and _want_ to have dinner with me. _If_ you want to have dinner with me.”  
  
She laughs at all the qualifiers but tells him, “I will,” seriously, and means it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It takes three weeks.  
  
They close a case and she says, “Do you want to have dinner with me? Takeout, my place?”  
  
“Of course I would,” he laughs.  
  
She shakes her head at him and they walk out together.  
  
It's surprisingly simple.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I've made a decision,” she tells him, sitting on her kitchen bench, while he's seated on her couch. The distance in purposeful but _not_ , she hopes he knows, about wanting distance from him.  
  
He puts his chopsticks down and looks at her with an open face.  
  
“I don't want to keep looking into my mother's case. At all.”  
  
He flounders a little. “What? Why? I mean, six months ago it was all I could do to get you to put it on _hold_.”  
  
She nods. She can't blame him for being confused or surprised.  
  
“It's been a gradual realisation. But the truth is, this isn't healthy for me. It takes me to a bad place. And before you say it I know, I'm not alone this time. I have you and Ryan and Esposito and Lanie. and it's not that you aren't all an amazing support, but it's not enough. It never will be. Doing this, trying to find her killer, will always be something I'm going through alone and that's not your fault and it's not mine but it's also something you can't change. It's _my_ grief and it's just too much for me.”  
  
She pauses to gauge his reaction – which at this point, by her assessment, is mostly uncertainty - before taking a breath and continuing.  
  
“If the NYPD chooses to reopen it at any point, I'm not going to try and stop that, but I don't want to be directly involved with it. And I don't want you to be either.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “You don't get to pretend it's that simple. You say it like it is, but I know you _want_ to get to the truth. Partly because it's your nature and you _need_ to know how the story ends - I'm not judging you for that, by the way - but partly it's because you want it for me, for my dad, to have answers and some closure. And you find it every bit as hard as I do to walk away from things.”  
  
“I'm not going to pretend I don't want you to have peace Kate.”  
  
“I know that. I'm just asking you to trust me, to believe that I know what's best for me and that this is it. Twice now I've nearly lost myself to this case. Losing her was bad enough; I don't need to lose any more pieces of my life because of it. Can you be with me on this? If something else comes up, we stand aside and let the NYPD or Ryan and Espo handle it.”  
  
She looks at him seriously and this might be the first time she's ever _really_ asked him for something. Something that she _needs_. From _him_ and _him_ alone. It's hard not to think of it as some kind of turning point.  
  
He nods slowly. “I can do that.”  
  
“Can you?” she asks again. “I _need_ you to be sure. I need to know that you are completely on my side with this. It's not _easy_ to walk away Castle. I need your support to do it.”  
  
She watches him closely, as he runs a hand through his hair, and there's something on his face that she doesn't understand. Conflict. Fear. Guilt.  
  
He stands and walk over to her, stopping when he reaches the counter, but standing to the side instead of in front of her.  
  
(It's her legs, she thinks; the image pops into her mind without permission. He can't stand in front of her because the position calls to mind too many other possibilities. It's entirely the wrong time to be thinking these kinds of thoughts but she has no idea what she's about to be hit with, so the distraction is understandable.)  
  
“There's something you need to know.”  
  
She feels her heart sink and steels herself for this truth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“He was protecting you,” Doctor Burke says in a neutral voice. He's playing Devil's Advocate, she knows. He's showing her the _reasonable_ way of looking at the situation.  
  
“I know,” she answers. She doesn't know what else to say about it. (This isn't an evasion. She _truly_ doesn't know what to say. It's why he hasn't come to the precinct in a week. There's no fight this time. There's just silence between them; not bitter, not angry, just _there_.)  
  
“But he lied?” Doctor Burke says, with only the slightest lilt to suggest he's asking a question and not simply making a statement.  
  
“Yes, he lied.”  
  
“So did you, when you told him you didn't remember,” he counters calmly.  
  
“I know,” she says. (She does. She's not keeping score with him. Truth be told neither one would win if they did that.)  
  
It's not that she doesn't _understand_. It's just that, even so, it hurts and they have a bad history with hurting each other.  
  
She doesn't like that about them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
But after a day or two of distance between them she realises that holding this against him, using it as an excuse against the possibility of _them_ , is simply adding another point to the list of ways they've hurt each other.  
  
She was happier sitting in an elevator with him, drunk but _talking_ to him, than she is not seeing him at all.  
  
It's better, she thinks, if they choose to make this the beginning of a new kind of list; ways in which they fight their shared history of stories that don't end well, to make sure this one does.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You still mad?” he asks, actually wincing as she opens the door and invites him in.  
  
“A little,” she tells him honestly. “But I don't want to be and I don't want this to be another excuse for us to take a step backwards. So, I'm working on it.”  
  
“It's more than I deserve,” he says ruefully.  
  
“No it's not,” she tells him, shaking her head emphatically. “Look, whatever mistakes we've made, neither one of us is blame free. And neither one of us have made those mistakes with the intent of hurting each other. I just want us to try to _stop_ making so many mistakes.”  
  
“You do remember you're talking to me, right? I'm practically the king of mistakes.”  
  
It's hard to tell if he means it in levity or not and it's moments like these she has to remember that his own insecurities, studiously set aside from his everyday displays of self confidence, are in fact real and matter as much as her own.  
  
“How about we just try really hard not to repeat the mistakes we've already made okay? I think we'll be fine if we can just manage that,” she says, lifting her hand cautiously to touch his cheek.  
  
“Deal,” he promises quietly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
In time her life becomes about a series of moments in which she chooses to embrace happiness just inches from Richard Castle.  
  
None of them involve death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He holds her hand, thumb running over her skin in soft circles.  
  
It could be déjà vu.  
  
But it's not.  
  
This time there's no dog, no excuse. It's just what he finds himself doing while they eat dinner, standing on opposite sides of her kitchen counter.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He brushes her hair back from her face and kisses her.  
  
It could be déjà vu.  
  
But it's not.  
  
This time they're not undercover. There's nothing more at stake than the conquering of their own fears. (Which lessen each day.)  
  
And when he pulls back, she kisses him. (Just like before.)  
  
But she doesn't stop. (Not like before.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I love you.”  
  
It could be déjà vu.  
  
But it's not.  
  
She tells him first, hovering above him, with a smile on her face.  
  
  
  
  
  
---


End file.
